She cries the way most people masturbate. Alone, in her bed or shower. Starting slow and quiet, working herself into a frenzy until she has released all tension. She is left breathless and exhausted, shuddering and angry.
She hates to cry. She hates the way it tires her out. She hates how it makes her look; blood shot and puffy eyes, swollen face. It pisses her off. She hates the feeling of losing control of her emotions. She hates sadness, loss and anger.
Oh she knows people say crying isn’t a weakness. In fact she has often told criers the exact same thing. Truth be told, she doesn’t give two fucks about what people say. She only knows what she knows and she knows she wants total control of her emotions.
When she was younger she would dig her fingernails into the palms of her hands to keep from crying. The pain would distract her. If she drew blood she would laugh internally, victory was hers. She had controlled the outcome.
Some have said she is cold hearted for her lack of tears. They didn’t know her, they still don’t. They don’t know her life and they don’t know her story. They can think whatever they want about her. They can say whatever they want. They will never see her cry. They will never see her cry, she says to herself, as her hands form into fists.